


Sweet Cider By The Fireside

by Fontainebleau



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Recovery from Illness, Unresolved Feelings, Widowhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 10:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12166770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/pseuds/Fontainebleau
Summary: Mag7 Week Day 1: 'Fall'.Martha Hamilton offers shelter to two travellers, in exchange for help with her cider apple harvest.





	Sweet Cider By The Fireside

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to wanderingsmith for the beta!

Martha Hamilton stood in her apple orchard and raised her face to the sun. It was a beautiful morning, sun bright on the dancing leaves, the grass still sparkling with dew, dampening the hem of her skirt. The branches were heavy with fruit, promising a good harvest. She knew she shouldn’t be lingering outdoors when there was work to be done, but coming out to empty her pail she had been enticed by the fragrant air down to the orchard to enjoy it while she could: in a week or two the leaves would begin to curl and brown, and the evening air to take on the first slight chill; this was the last of the summer. She gave thanks for the weather, for the bounty of apples, for the warmth on her skin. Life had not been easy these few years past, but we are not put on this earth for ease. She had much to be thankful for.

In this place, more than any other, she remembered her husband. She remembered Francis every day, of course, in her prayers at morning and night, and sometimes she still looked to the road at the day’s end expecting to see him walking home, though he had lain in his well-tended grave beside the church these six years. But the apple orchard had been his idea, his dream brought to fruition, the land purchased and the saplings sent up from Lawrence on the railcar: Golden Pearmain, best for cider. They’d planted them together, she working at his side, digging, staking, watering, and happy to share in the labour; they’d tended them, year on year, trained and pruned and guided them, and seen them grow strong and spreading in the rich earth, branches loaded each year with apples blushing rosy, to be picked and pressed and fermented. Since he’d been gone she found solace here, walking under the shade at midday or in the cool of the evening, running the leaves through her fingers, touching the bark still warm from the sun, counting the swelling fruit.

‘Sister Hamilton!’ The hailing voice roused her from her thoughts, and she turned to see the preacher striding energetically down the path. ‘A fine morning!’ 

‘Preacher Calderwood,’ she greeted him, colouring slightly to be found idling at this early hour, but he smiled sunnily.

‘You will have a fine harvest this year, God be praised.’ Andrew Calderwood was a short sleek man, not imposing in his manner, but he vibrated with enthusiasm for his calling: if a sinner like himself could hear the Lord’s call and find forgiveness, he always said, why hesitate to trust in redemption? 

‘I hope so,’ she replied, ‘though I doubt you walked out here simply to tell me that.’ 

The preacher’s smile widened. ‘You see to the heart of things, Sister Hamilton. I have a charity to ask of you. Though I think perhaps it may be beneficial in more ways than one.’ 

‘Will you come to the house and sit?’ she asked, but he shook his head enthusiastically and perched himself instead on the fence. ‘I can explain my proposal here: the canopy of God’s bounty is a house rich enough for all men.’

Martha folded her hands in her apron and raised her eyebrows enquiringly. Calderwood composed himself. ‘I had a visit yesterday evening from Doctor Wilkie: he has been treating a stranger fallen into our midst. The man had taken a bad fever, and to begin with Wilkie feared for his life, but providence has blessed him and he is out of danger.’ 

‘A blessing, certainly,’ said Martha, a little impatiently, ‘you mentioned a charity?’ 

‘He has a friend with him,’ continued Calderwood, ‘and the two of them must needs stay among us until he is recovered.’ 

‘I see,’ said Martha, the drift of the tale not wholly unexpected. 

‘Our unfortunate fellow needs somewhere to recuperate his forces, and his friend, an amiable and able-bodied man, looks to find work in exchange for their lodging.’ His smile brightened again. ‘And at this time of year I thought of your apple harvest, and of your house, and thought perhaps –' 

‘… that the two needs might repay each other.’ She didn’t need the careful encouragement: Martha Hamilton’s sweet cider was always in demand, every jug of it sharp and sound, but for a widow apple season was the hardest. 

Ask your neighbours the first year and they’re glad to help, _poor Martha, can’t see her struggle alone_ , and it was cheerful and sociable, friends’ husbands and sons working with ladders and baskets, the apples picked and pressed in double-quick time; but the next year, and the next, it becomes a chore, an imposition; _I suppose old Martha Hamilton will be wanting us to work her orchard again_ , and she wouldn’t have that. One year she had put on a pair of Francis’ old pants under her skirt and taken the ladder out herself, but it was shaming, and the pressing more of a struggle than she cared to admit. Another year she took on a hired man, and that was clear and easy, but the money from the orchard gone before it was made.

Yes, the benefit was plain enough, if the friend was a good worker, and also the drawback, if she must act as nurse to a coarse and refractory drifter. ‘It seems a practical proposition,’ she said cautiously, ‘but I should meet them before I make any decision.’ 

Preacher Calderwood beamed in satisfaction. ‘Just the suggestion I was going to make. Mr Robishaw will be at my house at noon, if it would suit you to call.’ 

Midday would give her time enough to make the bread and look to her housekeeping; she inclined her head in agreement. ‘Very well. Will you explain to Mr … Robishaw the terms of exchange?’ 

‘Certainly, Sister,’ said Calderwood, taking her hand and shaking it with vigour. ‘Your charity is an example to us all.’ 

_I have not yet agreed_ , she said silently, but she accompanied him back to the road and watched as he took his leave.

She must be grateful. He was kind to name it a charity; in truth the advantage was as much to her as to her guests. Francis had been a good man and an upright one, not the most practical or worldly, but he had her to help with that: Martha Hamilton was always a good manager, and had an eye to a bargain too, and together they’d prospered, enough to buy the land and build their house. But he’d succumbed to a winter cough that never cured, despite horehound tea and mustard plasters; a quick wasting burned him up in the space of a summer, and then she was alone. And after the inevitable closure of his store she had found her future more precarious than she had ever imagined.

A childless widow in her forties was hardly an attractive match, and the money from the sale of the business, prudently invested, brought her enough to get by, but too little to attract a suitor of any standing. After the funeral one or two men of the town had paid her the odd visit, offering to help with chores or haul a load of wood, but Jared Moore had five motherless children on a farm that barely repaid his efforts, while Thomas Winter was a gentleman three days of each week and drunk the other four. Martha Hamilton had quickly resigned herself to life as a widow.

Despite her economy money was always scant, and if sometimes she steeped herbs from the vegetable garden when she was alone to save the coffee, and if her underclothes were patched and turned and patched again, well, no one need see. There was the cider, of course, and that was a help, but no business which might bring a little income was truly respectable for a woman alone. From time to time she could board out a room to a visiting preacher, or give a night’s shelter to a lady travelling with a child, but such opportunities were too infrequent to be reliable.

And now this Mr Robishaw and his friend. The recovering patient, she thought, could occupy the simple room at the front of the house, and his companion, as a hired man, might sleep in the kitchen. The arrangement was perhaps not wholly proper since she had no companion or maid to act as chaperone, but if it was done at the preacher’s suggestion then none of her neighbours ought question her correctness.

 

At a quarter to twelve she tidied herself for the interview. A widow must needs be plain and sober in appearance, and at her age Martha should presume herself beyond vanity, if indeed she ever had a deal to be vain about, but she checked her print dress for spots, tied her bonnet before the glass and wrapped her shawl carefully, trusting that she could at least show a figure to the world that was neat, calm and authoritative.

When Preacher Calderwood ushered her into his study and she saw the man standing there, her first thought was that there must have been some misunderstanding. She had been expecting a dusty cowboy spitting tobacco under a felt hat, a man who would sleep in the kitchen and be grateful for three meals a day, whose profanities she would have to pretend not to hear. What she saw was a gentleman in cravat and high polished boots, a shining watchchain across his vest, who took her hand and spoke with an air of cultivation: ‘Mrs Hamilton, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ 

She wanted to be poised, but she felt herself gaping as foolishly as a fish. He had a handsome weatherbeaten face; he was not a tall man, nor heavyset, but he exuded confidence, a gold tooth flashing in his smile. ‘Mr Robishaw?’ 

‘Goodnight Robicheaux, at your service.’ As he spoke his name, giving it its proper accent, his smile was broad and perhaps a little expectant: she looked to the preacher. 

‘Mr Robicheaux is well known for his exploits in the war.’ 

It annoyed her to have to reveal her ignorance. ‘I am afraid … our life here is a quiet one, perhaps too sheltered.’ 

Mr Robicheaux seemed unconcerned, all easy charm. ‘No need to apologise, Mrs Hamilton: I can’t express my gratitude to you for taking us in.’ 

‘Did Preacher Calderwood explain to you the work that needs doing?’ she asked uncertainly. 

‘Yes: I understand that you would appreciate assistance with your apple harvest, and with heavy work in general. And if you can offer a place where Billy can recuperate his strength, I undertake that we’ll be no trouble to you.’ 

Calderwood added smoothly, ‘I understand from Dr Wilkie that Mr Rocks is past the crisis of fever, but very weak: he will need a week or two abed.’ 

_Rocks?_ Another odd name, but Martha nodded and said formally to Mr Robicheaux, ‘If you are willing to assist with the harvest and other work, I would be happy to house and find for you and your friend while he recovers.’ 

Apparently satisfied by this resolution, Calderwood turned to Mr Robicheaux. ‘It really is most providential that you should have struck upon our town at your moment of need; as I can attest myself …’ 

_Saints preserve us_ , thought Martha, well-versed in the signs, _we shall be here all afternoon if he begins on his own story_ , and as he drew breath to continue she cut in. ‘It appears we have an agreement, Mr Robicheaux. My house is a quarter-mile beyond town, past the lumber mill.’ Francis had been proud of that, that they need not live above the store as his parents had done, but could buy enough land for their own small house and for the orchard behind. ‘Your friend will need to be brought by cart, I imagine.’ 

‘Wilkie and I will assist with that,’ said Calderwood and Mr Robicheaux said eagerly, ‘I’ll stay to see Billy brought over gently, and we’ll be with you in the half-hour.’

\--

The room she had to offer was downstairs, convenient for the kitchen: it had once been intended for a parlour, but the time for that had passed, the good chairs moved to the main room, the carved whatnot and glass-shaded lamp sold. Now it contained just a bed with a clean blocked quilt, a chair, a chest and a rag rug; to these had been added the small stack of saddlebags and bedrolls brought by her guests. And in the bed lay Mr Robicheaux’s friend. 

When she came into the room and with a pitcher of water and basin and saw him for the first time, his features brought her up short; now she understood the preacher’s emphasis on charity. A Chinaman? She’d heard of Chinese on the railroads, and Hannah in her letters spoke of Chinese traders in their towns out West, but she’d seen few herself. Long hair hung loose around his shoulders, bare under the sheet, and that there could be a connection between well-dressed Mr Robicheaux and this outlandish Oriental, let alone that he should declare them friends, seemed unfathomable. 

Mr Robicheaux was looking at her watchfully, plainly gauging her reaction, and she deliberately smoothed her face. To refuse a fellow creature in need would be unchristian, and she repeated to herself the words of the Saviour: _I was sick and you cared for me_. ‘You’ll need a nightshirt to be decent,’ she said to the man in the bed, ‘I’ll fetch you one of my husband’s to wear.’ 

Mr Robicheaux relaxed a little and said cheerfully, ‘I promise you we’ll be as little imposition as we can: I’ll attend to Billy myself.’ 

‘I don’t need nursing,’ protested his friend weakly. To hear him speak English came as a relief, though anyone could see his words weren’t true: his face was still damp with fever, and his breath came quick and shallow. 

‘Now, Billy, what you need is rest and feeding, as the doc said,’ said Mr Robicheaux. 

‘We may trust to Doctor Wilkie’s experience: with God’s aid you will be restored to health before long,’ said Martha reassuringly. She handed him the jug and basin. ‘I’ll fetch that nightshirt.’

 

Upstairs she knelt to open the chest where she kept what remained of Francis’ underclothes, folded with bags of dried lavender to keep them fresh; some she’d unpicked and resewn for her own use, but there was still a clean nightshirt, a little worn, though this … Billy seemed in no position to protest at that. She held it for a moment, memory returning sharp; theirs had been a successful marriage, God be praised, the two of them well-matched in temperament and Francis a kind and appreciative man. No baby ever came, and they had both been sorry for that, had even at one time mentioned obliquely to the preacher about taking in an orphan child, but time passed and it never came to be; so she managed the house and balanced the books, sewed for the church and walked with Francis on a Sunday afternoon, and it had been a good life. Many had less. She closed the chest and got to her feet. To lose him so soon had been hard, but it was not for her to question the ways of God. 

When she returned a short while later Mr Robicheaux’s friend, properly clad in a bedshirt and with his hair tied back, looked slightly more civilised; he was sleeping, lashes black against his cheeks, and Mr Robicheaux was sitting at his bedside in shirt-sleeves. 

Seeing the only bed occupied reminded her that they’d not addressed the question of where Mr Robicheaux would sleep. She would have expected a hired man to bed down in the kitchen without complaint, or perhaps on the floor beside his friend, but to suggest that for a man of quality was clearly unacceptable. ‘I had thought …’ she began, but what had she thought? 

Mr Robicheaux held up a hand, stood up quietly and led her out, pulling the door half-closed. ‘He sleeps fitfully at present: I hate to wake him once he’s truly resting.’ 

Such careful concern piqued her curiosity, and she wondered what chance could have brought them together, though she said merely, ‘You will need to rest too, and we have not discussed your accommodation.’ 

Mr Robicheaux seemed unconcerned. ‘I can bed down on the floor beside Billy; we’ve both had harder sleeping than this, I assure you.’ 

‘You’ll need a mattress,’ she said firmly, mind made up, ‘though you must bring it down yourself,’ and she led him up the stairs to the small room under the eaves where a straw mattress lay uncovered on a low bed. Seeing the frame and mattress manhandled downstairs and covered with his blankets satisfied her, and she left him moving quietly about the room, disposing their belongings.

 

Shortly afterward Mr Robicheaux appeared in the kitchen in vest and rolled sleeves, saying genially, ‘Now, Mrs Hamilton, I’m yours to command. Where shall I start to earn my keep?’ 

Uncharacteristically, she floundered: there was no shortage of heavy work to be done, but where she would simply have instructed a more workaday type, to order a gentleman to set to seemed inappropriate. ‘It’s too late to begin in the orchard today …’ she frowned. 

Hearing the prevarication behind her words he smiled, and this time it reached his blue eyes. ‘Why don’t you show me where the woodpile is, and I can make a start on that?’ 

It was a welcome suggestion: chopping wood, though necessary, was the task she found most troublesome: she’d wished more than once that she were a pioneer wife who could swing an axe as easily as a man. The few times she’d attempted it the wood had seemed as hard as iron, bouncing away under a tentative blow, and she’d become shamefully dependent on the goodwill of neighbours for her store of fuel. 

Mr Robicheaux set to at the chopping block with a will while she pulled vegetables for their supper and then considered the chickens scratching in the dust. She would not have a guest dissatisfied with quantity or quality of her provision, and when the meat was eaten, the bones might make a nourishing broth for an invalid.

She plucked the fowl to the regular fall of the axe and the clatter of stacking wood, but after she returned to the stove and set the meal to cook she realised the sounds from outside had changed, and peeped from the window to see him squatting, vest set aside, mending the rail of the fence that had split in the last storm. A faint sound of whistling carried on the air: _a cheerful man, then, as well as a willing worker_.

 

Cooking was something on which Martha prided herself: Francis had always said that she had a fine hand with seasoning. She had prepared a stew, judging it something that a sick man might easily eat and a hungry man find filling, and when she set the plate in front of him with a generous chunk of bread Mr Robicheaux sniffed appreciatively, though he waited politely while she said grace. 

His conversation was diverting as he spun a story of learning to work wood when he was young so he could build a raft, and it took some time before she realised he was doing little more than picking at his food. ‘Is it not to your taste?’ she asked, disappointed. ‘Too much pepper, perhaps?’ 

He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I often have little appetite, though perhaps honest labour will improve that.’ 

It was against her expectation for a man not to eat; and when he rubbed at one of his hands before reaching for his bread, she caught sight of the pink of blistering. Her impression that he was not accustomed to physical work seemed accurate, yet he and his friend were plainly not wealthy: she wondered again at the circumstances that had led them to her door. 

Mr Robicheaux laughed ruefully when he saw her gaze. ‘Too much riding and not enough outdoor work: I’ll soon toughen up, don’t you worry.’ _Like my husband_ , she thought: Francis was a storekeeper, his hands always soft. It was the first thing she’d really noticed about him.

To her chagrin the meal was left half-eaten, but Mr Robicheaux thanked her politely nevertheless, adding, ‘I’m sure Billy will be willing to do justice to it.’ And when she cleared the plates he looked to her for permission to fill a bowl and carry it through to his friend. 

As she cleaned the pots she heard the murmur of their voices, and wondered, _perhaps he has a sweet tooth?_

\--

The next morning saw work begin in the orchard: the first frost would spoil the apples and there was little time to lose to gather them in still sound and ripe. Mr Robicheaux was up with the lark, fetching water for washing and a breakfast of cornmeal mush for himself and his friend, then presenting himself to fetch ladder and baskets at her direction. 

It was pleasant out under the trees, branches bowed under the weight of fruit, leaves stirring in a breeze scented with hay and woodsmoke. ‘The picking must be gentle, not to bruise the fruit,’ she said, plucking an apple from the lowest branch and placing it carefully in the basket in demonstration. 

‘Teaching your grandmother, Mrs Hamilton,’ grinned Mr Robicheaux, as light-hearted as a boy, ‘we had few apples in Louisiana, the climate’s no good for them, but peaches and figs we had aplenty, and I’ve seen my share of picking.’ 

_Seen, not done_ , she noted, confirming her suspicions about his upbringing, but he set the ladder against the trunk and climbed up easily enough with his basket, picking ably and carefully. 

Rather than stand like an overseer she took a basket of her own to the opposite side of the plot and began gathering from the branches she could reach; the apples came readily from the branch, smooth and plump in her hand, and as the sun danced through the leaves and warmed her back a weight lifted from her shoulders: here was the harvest secured for another year, the need to be beholden avoided, a full cellar to let her sleep easier over the winter. 

When the basket was heavy she took it to the gate, exchanging it for an empty one, and met Mr Robicheaux on his way with a full load. ‘A fine harvest,’ he said, eyes twinkling with enthusiasm, and she couldn’t keep a smile from her face. 

‘Try one.’ He plucked an apple from the basket, crunched into it and his face creased in pleasure – hers were fine apples, sweet and crisp, and warm from the tree on a September day was the time to taste them. 

‘I’ll endeavour not to eat more than I pick,’ he joked, and took a new basket back. 

Martha worked her way methodically down one side of the plot, plucking where she was able to reach, and after a while set down a last basket and called over to him, ‘I need to get back to the kitchen. Come in at dinnertime. There’s water in the well if you wish it.’ 

He raised a hand from the ladder. ‘Could I ask you to look in on Billy for me?’ 

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘a fair exchange.’

 

She brought up the stove ready for the bread and washed her hands, then went to see how Mr Robicheaux’s friend was faring. He was asleep, chest rising and falling regularly: the glass beside the bed was empty, and she refilled it. She stretched out a hand to feel his brow, a little tentatively, but his skin was cool to the touch. 

The clink of china and brush of her hand roused him, and he came blinking awake, mumbling something she couldn’t catch, then more clearly, ‘Goody?’ 

She couldn’t think what he meant, then remembered: Goodnight. _Goody_. ‘He’s working in the orchard,’ she said, ‘he’ll be back at dinnertime. Do you need…?’ 

He shook his head, stretching and then curling in on himself like a cat. ‘Rest, then.’ 

An oddity he might be, but he was far from the difficult patient she had feared. And rest and quiet would indeed cure most ills, that and proper feeding, so she went back to the stove, closing the door behind her. 

She kneaded her bread and set it by the stove to prove, then at a thought took down the flour crock, measuring. _How long since I made a pie?_ It seemed an extravagance, to bake for herself alone, and she did so rarely, though when she sent a pie to a church supper or a harvest home the dish always came back empty. She could use some of the preserved plums: _If I’m baking bread, no extra cost to bake a pie at the same time_ , and she fetched bowl and butter to set to.

\--

True to his promise not to impose, Mr Robicheaux took on almost all the care of his friend, alongside his steady labour in the orchard: he fetched Billy his meals, helped him to wash and shave, and going in with clean linen or fresh water she often found him sitting attentively while Billy slept. She had hardly the nursing to do that she had expected; indeed she saw his friend only a few times a day, when she tapped on the door and went in with tea, or to light the lamp. Even so, she could see his health begin slowly to improve: he was more often awake and more attentive to his surroundings, and though he never offered her more than simple requests or thanks, she could not fault his manner. 

Mr Robicheaux’s concern, she thought, bespoke a strong bond, especially given the difference in their standing, and she could not help but speculate how their friendship had come about. Returning from her weekly visit to Sarah MacPherson she found him outside, scrubbing vigorously at a tub of linen, and seeing him uncomplaining at such work, was moved to comment, ‘Your attention to your friend does you much credit.’ 

Mr Robicheaux looked surprised. ‘It is little enough; I owe Billy more than I can say. And the fever came so unexpectedly: by the time we reached help I feared … caring for him is the least I can do.’ 

His words hinted, she thought, at danger shared: if a life had perhaps been saved in a desperate situation, the loyalty he demonstrated would be only natural. ‘He is on the road to recovery, Doctor Wilkie said so, though he should not overexert himself.’ 

Mr Robicheaux’s face lightened. ‘That’ll be the struggle, once he’s stronger, keeping him abed – Billy’s a cussed so- … so-and-so.’ He wrung out the sheet energetically and stood up to hang it in the breeze, then turned back to her, serious again. ‘We both appreciate the shelter you’ve given us; Billy sometimes finds a poorer welcome than this. And your neighbour Ingalls taking our horses to graze: you are a generous community.’ 

‘It was a happy fall of events,’ said Martha, warmed by his praise, ‘and it offers us all a chance to show our better nature.’ 

 

On Sunday she washed and dressed as usual in her good dress and a clean collar, settling it before the glass, then sitting to lace the boots polished the evening before. After warming the stove and setting bread to prove she fetched her Bible and shawl in readiness to leave for service, and to her surprise found Mr Robicheaux waiting at the foot of the stair, spruce in clean shirt and coat, hat in hand. ‘Will I walk with you to church, Mrs Hamilton?’ he asked. 

‘I had not expected to find you a churchgoer, Mr Robicheaux.’ The comment had been surprised out of her before she could consider it, but he didn’t seem to find it rude. 

‘I can’t claim to be a regular attender: the kind of life which Billy and I lead rarely lends itself to Sundays in church. But I am indebted to Preacher Calderwood for the help he’s given, and I know it would please him to see me in his congregation. And I’m sure it will be good for my soul, wouldn’t you agree?’ 

His grin could have been infectious, but she set her face soberly, taking the words at their intent: ‘The ways of God pass our understanding, we are assured, and I believe any reason for attending church to be the correct one.’ 

Mr Robicheaux seemed unabashed. ‘Let me just speak one more word with Billy, and I’ll be at your disposal.’ He ducked away for a quiet comment to his friend, then re-emerged with a smile and the offer of his arm. 

She had made the walk to Sunday service countless times, along the road past fields of cabbages and beans, and the lumber mill at the edge of the woods, then through the town, joining the stream of worshippers flowing up the steps of the whitewashed church. In the last years she had sometimes had to stifle a pang of envy at the neighbours driving past her in a wagon, children scrubbed and neat behind them, at the couples walking cheerfully arm-in-arm, but today, in the late summer sun, with Mr Robicheaux an easy conversationalist at her side, she could have wished the road longer. And at the church door there were friends to greet and introductions to be given, Mr Robicheaux at her elbow, offering his hand and making acquaintance until everyone’s interest was satisfied. 

When the service was over and they emerged once more into the sunshine, children running and scuffling in relief after sitting still and obedient through the sermon, Preacher Calderwood himself came to enquire after the progress of Mr Rocks, and Mr Robicheaux stopped to assure Doctor Wilkie that his treatment was proving successful. 

As they talked, Mrs Wilkie pressed her hand warmly, declaring, ‘You have a Christian heart, Martha!’ and her heart was light as she replied placidly, ‘It’s no trouble to shelter a wanderer in time of need.’

 

After they had made their farewells and took the road home, Mr Robicheaux commented humorously, ‘The labourers in the vineyard! An appropriate text for me.’ 

Martha tried and failed to stifle a laugh. ‘We hear that story very often since Preacher Calderwood arrived to lead us: it is an unaccustomed choice, certainly, but it is his favourite.’ 

Mr Robicheaux was intrigued. ‘Why does he favour it?’ 

‘Our preacher heard the Lord’s call later in life,’ Martha informed him, ‘like the labourers who came last to work. And his way of living before – he would tell you himself, he was a sinner.’ 

‘What kind of sinner?’ asked Mr Robicheaux, eyes sparkling with amusement. 

_Gossiping, Martha?_ But Calderwood’s conversion was well known, a topic he would discuss with any questioner in the town. ‘He was a gambler by profession, a dishonest man who made a living by fraud and trickery. No doubt his victims were little better than he, men playing games and betting in a saloon, but he took no thought for justice or charity, only for his own gain, associating himself with the lowest of society.’ 

‘And how did he come to leave his life of sin?’ Mr Robicheaux seemed vastly entertained. 

‘He fell ill, with smallpox, and his companions thought nothing of abandoning him in the wilds in his sickness; he would surely have died, had a stranger not found him and taken pity, and the good folk of the town taken him in to nurse.’ 

‘I see it really was providential that Billy and I found our way here,’ interjected Mr Robicheaux more seriously. 

‘And when he recovered, he first set himself in company with the minister to nurse the other afflicted in turn, then, when all who could heal had healed, he set himself on the narrow path to righteousness.’ 

‘A most improving tale,’ nodded Mr Robicheaux, lips twitching. 

Martha laughed again softly. ‘He tells it often, to aid others, and he is right: it is never too late to find a new life.’ 

Mr Robicheaux smiled at that, and for a moment the years on his brow lifted. ‘That’s a lesson I have already learnt, Mrs Hamilton; no one need tell me that a man can take an unexpected turn and find his life changed out of all recognition.’ 

 

Martha didn’t drink her own cider often. In part it was simple economy: it was an element of her livelihood now, valuable enough to be exchanged for what otherwise she would not afford – a side of bacon, a length of printed poplin for a dress, new boots, when the old could no longer be patched. In part the memory pierced too sharp: when Francis was alive the cider was a celebration, a promise of summer in the depths of winter, an evening’s pleasure between husband and wife. To drink it alone seemed a sad thing, and also a hint of danger - the widow finding company in a jug, toping at her barrel: she had her pride. So her cider went out in jugs and tuns to other houses, carrying the flavour of summer fruit and long golden days, and she sat by the fire with her tea and her sewing. 

But on Sunday evening, when Mr Robicheaux remarked at supper with good humour, ‘I won’t deny I’m grateful for a day of rest, speaking as the labourer in the apple orchard,’ it seemed unfriendly not to offer afterwards, ‘Will you take a taste of what your work will produce?’ 

‘I won’t decline, Mrs Hamilton,’ he said with friendly enthusiasm, so she fetched a jug while he took a chair at the hearthside and poured out two cups, clear and apple-scented. 

He swirled the cup and tasted it, then turned an appreciative face towards her: ‘You can taste the apples crisp from the sun, but the sharpness adds depth to it. And it has something of a kick to it too.’ 

The praise warmed her. ‘My husband always said that making cider was like bottling summer.’ 

Mr Robicheaux tasted his cup again. ‘An exact description. Was he a poetic man?’ 

The thought made her smile. ‘You couldn’t call Mr Hamilton that – he was a storekeeper, the most prosaic of occupations. But he loved the orchard. We planted it together.’ 

Mr Robicheaux leaned back in his chair, drawing out her reminiscences with gentle prompting, and she found herself talking about the past, about Francis and his apple trees, and about how they built up the store business, until she was surprised at how much she’d said.

She refilled his cup, and then asked curiously, ‘I have talked a great deal about Mr Hamilton’s occupation: what profession do you follow, Mr Robicheaux?’ 

‘Am I so unconvincing a hired man?’ he asked drolly, and she had to laugh. 

‘I cannot fault your work, though your hands do betray you.’ 

He leaned back in his chair, his expression difficult to read. ‘I don’t lay claim to any one profession: I was a marksman, in the army, and for a while after a … a lawman, my friend Sam Chisolm is a warrant officer and we worked together. Since then … Billy and I have taken many kinds of work, as fortune dictates…’ 

The topic seemed an uncomfortable one, and again she wondered at the contrast between his current circumstances and the upbringing he had hinted at. Rather than press him, she said, ‘I should not pry. You can see from the interest in your presence this morning that a stranger is a great novelty to us.’ 

‘Then I am happy to provide a diversion,’ he said, amused again. 

Emboldened by his good humour, and the cider perhaps loosening her tongue, she said, ‘Your given name is unusual, certainly: I have not heard it before.’ 

She thought he seemed pleased by her curiosity. ‘It is a family name. And yet … it has had more fate in it than I would have thought.’ A considering expression crossed his face. ‘Are names our fate, do you suppose?’ 

‘I have always hoped that need not be so,’ said Martha, with a wry smile, ‘When I was young I often felt Martha a somewhat dispiriting example.’ 

Mr Robicheaux raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we all had the freedom to choose our own.’ 

‘Name, or fate?’ she asked, and could not keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘I would have chosen a different fate, had I the choice: I would have my husband here with me.’ _I would not be a widow._

Mr Robicheaux stiffened awkwardly. ‘Of course; no one would expect otherwise.’ 

‘And you?’ she asked to fill the silence. ‘Would you choose a different fate?’ 

He was quiet for a long time, thinking as he sipped his cider, but eventually he said, ‘There is much I regret, that is true, but we cannot know where our path will lead us: it would be a wiser man than I who tried to guess his own future.’ 

‘God disposes,’ Martha agreed, ‘we may be sure of that.’ 

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Robicheaux, apparently lost to his own thoughts, and soon he picked up the newspaper and settled to read with his feet on the fender. 

Martha sat with her needlework, back straight in her chair; it had been a long while since she’d spent an evening like this, quietly companionable beside the hearth. _Mr Robicheaux. Goodnight_.

\--

Days of apple-picking are pleasant, out under the sun, the work long and painstaking but undemanding; the hard part comes after. Basket after basket of apples, to be pounded down to a pulp, wrapped in muslin and layered into the press. And the press itself, needing turn after turn of straining exertion to rack it down and send the tawny juice pouring out into the waiting barrel. Then it must be emptied, cleaned and the process started all over again. It takes time and it takes effort, but day by day the mounds of apples diminish and the barrels fill, to be rolled down to the cellar to ferment.

Mr Robicheaux was not practised, but he mastered the work quickly under her tutelage: ‘Never too old to learn,’ he said cheerfully, and at the end of each day he looked with pride at the growing row of barrels in the cellar. 

No housewife need pay for medicine when home remedies were easily at hand: horehound for a cough, sorrel for a fever, peppermint for digestion and arnica to soothe cracking skin. Martha passed no comment when Mr Robicheaux rubbed at his hands, raw from the day’s pounding and pressing, but at supper a jar of salve sat next to his plate. He accepted it equally wordlessly, though she thought she saw his lips twitch, and took it away to the bedroom, but later when he shook out the newspaper at the fireside she caught the scent of it and saw his hands less sore. It made her momentarily conscious of her own hands as she sewed, reddened and rough from cooking and scrubbing, and for a moment she thought she might use the salve herself, but then she chided herself for vanity: her namesake should remind her that we were not put on this earth to idle.

 

And as Mr Robicheaux worked, his friend grew stronger. All signs of fever were past, and he sat up in bed clear-eyed and with better colour. Mr Robicheaux pronounced himself delighted with his progress: ‘Billy’s getting impatient: it’s been all I can do to keep him abed today. Wilkie must let him up this week.’ 

Lying abed was a test of any man’s patience, to be sure: ‘Would he care to read?’ offered Martha. ‘I have few books, but he could take a newspaper.’ _Or the Bible_ , she added silently. 

A look she hadn’t seen before flitted across Mr Robicheaux’s face. ‘It’s a kind thought, Mrs Hamilton, but Billy finds reading an English newspaper a little difficult.’ 

She was at a loss what else to suggest – a woman might find twenty ways to keep her hands busy, sewing or knitting, peeling vegetables or piecing a rug, but none were suitable for a man. Then it occurred to her: ‘Perhaps if he needs occupation, he could help me with the herbs?’ and Mr Robicheaux’s face lit up. 

So she set Mr Rocks to stripping lavender and caraway for her, then, when he had finished, dared to bring basins of beans for him to string and peas to shell. She soon realised that unlike his friend he was no conversationalist; he seemed as uncertain in her presence as she in his, and when he spoke at all, his comments were brief and awkward. But though he never became less gruff, each task was done with precision and care, and he looked up with more interest when he heard her tap on the door. 

 

At midweek she paid an extra visit to Sarah MacPherson, with reason enough, bringing her contribution of quilt blocks for the meeting they would have on Saturday, for Mrs Carter’s daughter Grace, soon to be wed and needing help with her marriage chest. Martha and Sarah never spent an afternoon together in idleness; if there were not regular work to do, putting up preserves or stitching shirts for the poor barrel at church, then they were busy at tasks that went easier with two pairs of hands, cutting dresses for themselves or refilling a straw mattress; but any task was more quickly and pleasantly done with the accompaniment of conversation and good company.

Sarah had always been her closest friend, before Francis died and after, and one of the few individuals, Hannah aside, to whom Martha felt she could speak her mind without fear of censure or indiscretion. Their friendship had grown from common experience, when they found themselves both newcomers to the town and recently married; over the years she had shared Sarah’s anxieties at her elder son’s quarrelling with Mr MacPherson, and her sorrow when he finally packed his bag and went out West, his infrequent letters soon trickling to a stop; she’d laid bare her own resignation at her and Francis’ childlessness, and in more recent time she had found some of the indignities of poverty lessened by shared humour and understanding. And now … 

She had nothing to say, of course, no more than to report the success of Preacher Calderwood’s arrangement and the satisfactory course of the cidermaking, her surprise at Mr Robicheaux’s gentlemanly manners and good companionship, and her gratification that his friend should be returning to health. And Sarah ventured nothing more than approval of the circumstance, and pleasure that a charitable impulse should be rewarded. They spoke of many other matters too, of the need to lay in provisions for the winter, of Abigail Williams’ new dress that she had worn on Sunday, of plans for the Carters’ wedding supper. 

But when she finished her tea at the afternoon’s end and put on her shawl to leave, Sarah enveloped her in a hug, sudden and warm. ‘It’s good to see you so well, Martha,’ she said, kissing her cheek, and joy fizzed up inside her, sweet and fragrant.

 

The next day Doctor Wilkie called to examine his patient and pronounced himself satisfied: Mr Rocks might now get up and continue his recuperation with exercise. And Martha discovered that Mr Rocks, as she must remember to call him, lying in bed behind a closed door was one thing, and Mr Rocks dressed and moving about her house quite another. He should, she thought, have seemed less exotic once presentably dressed in black vest and pants, freshly shaved and with his hair drawn back and tied up to a semblance of decency, but in fact he appeared more so, and equally foreign in his stillness and detachment. He was able to do little more at first than walk around the house and sit in a chair, and he said so little, unresponsive to her observations, that she feared to seem uncivil by ignoring him, but Mr Robicheaux simply laughed when she raised her concern: ‘Billy always says I talk enough for two. He is quiet; he does not mean it as rudeness.’ 

He spent much of his time outside, sitting on the back stoop; she supposed even the sight of scratching chickens and passing carts must be more diverting than the four walls of a room. Only at mealtimes did she catch a glimpse of sociability, when the three of them sat around the table; Mr Rocks ate with a better appetite than his friend, as neat and polite in his manners as she could have wished, and bowed his head when she said grace too, though she caught the warning glance which Mr Robicheaux cast him the first time. Mr Robicheaux’s conversation was always entertaining, tales of places they had visited or adventures on their travels, and Mr Rocks was content to let him run on, adding occasional interjections to correct his memory (‘No, Goody, that was before we got to Santa Fe,’) or prompt another tale (‘… like the time we camped in the dry wash and it flooded overnight …’). When supper, was done, however, Mr Rocks would always thank her courteously and retire, pleading tiredness, leaving Mr Robicheaux to the newspaper and conversation in the lamplight, and Martha could not find it in her to be sorry.

 

That night when she took the lamp upstairs she undressed as usual, folding her dress carefully away and exchanging her petticoat for a nightgown. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and drew the pins from her hair one by one, shaking it from its braid and picking up her brush. No one but her husband had seen it loose since she put her hair up as a young lady of fifteen, and hidden from the sun under cap or bonnet, the colour was less vivid than it had been – russet, Francis had called it, like the apple – but it still fell long and heavy over her shoulder, curling slightly. She didn’t need the glass to show her the threads of grey running through it, but age comes to men and women alike, bringing crinkles at the corner of the eye and grey streaks in a beard. The girl she’d been at fifteen was thirty years past, and yet sitting in her nightgown, feet curled under her and drawing the brush through her hair, she could still believe herself abed with her sister Hannah, whispering secrets and spinning tales about the future they would have.

 _Hannah_. It had been years since they last met, her sister gone to Minnesota with her husband: she last saw her a blooming young wife with a babe in her arms, but from her letters life had been hard, one child after another on a farm less promising than hoped. She should write. She had written less often since Francis’ death, finding the account of her daily life dull even to herself. But now: she could tell Hannah, like when they were girls.

\--

At Saturday’s quilting party out at the Carter farm the talk was inevitably of the preparations for the coming wedding and the new house which Grace’s intended husband was building, and Martha joined in her neighbours’ discussion of the wedding supper and the furnishing of the house with enjoyment equal to any. At length, however, the conversation turned to her guests: all who had met him agreed that Mr Robicheaux was quite charming, and looked forward to seeing him again at Sunday service, but they were curious about his unseen friend. 

‘Is he as handsome as Mr Robicheaux?’ giggled Grace’s sister Mary. 

‘Mary, really,’ reproved her mother, but Martha couldn’t find it in her heart to frown. 

‘He is less sociable, that is certainly true, though he is still regaining his strength.’ 

That Mr Rocks was Chinese was well-known, and Carrie Brooke asked timidly, ‘Is it not a little strange, that they should be friends? What is his occupation?’ 

And Martha was bound to own she did not know. ‘Mr Robicheaux was formerly an officer of the law,’ she said composedly, ‘but Mr Rocks is a reticent man, and has not discussed his circumstances.’ 

‘Well, we may ask him at the wedding,’ pronounced Mary confidently, ‘he must be well by then, and I am sure they will both attend.’ 

‘Everyone is invited,’ said Mrs Carter calmly, but Mary was not to be deterred. ‘Do you think Mr Rocks will know how to dance?’ 

‘I am not sure that he is a great one for dancing,’ said Martha, her lips twitching despite herself. 

‘Oh, but Mr Robicheaux has the look of a fine dancer, don’t you agree?’ Mary’s blue-eyed smile was mischievous. 

‘Pay attention to your stitches, Mary,’ said her mother firmly, ‘we must see the quilt finished before we think about dancing,’ but her tone was good-humoured, and Martha felt it a fine promise for the bride, a marriage quilt made with laughter and friendship. 

 

On Sunday morning in her good dress, humming a hymn, Martha opened the chest to fetch out clean stockings, and as she made to close it again she stopped, struck by a thought. She reached under the clean handkerchiefs to find, right at the very bottom, a small green box. When she opened it the brooch sparkled as bright as when Francis first gave it to her to mark their engagement: a silver spray of leaves and flowers picked out in topaz and garnet. _Too fine for everyday wear, but perhaps it is a shame to leave it hidden away in the dark_. She pinned it at her neck and it sat well at the collar of her dark dress, its brightness mirrored in the face of her reflection.

Her step on the stair was light, and there waiting at its foot was a handsome man in a formal grey coat, ready to offer a gallant arm and escort her to church. This time Mr Rocks was up and dressed, and he watched them leave, though he made no offer to accompany them; she was content that his continuing recuperation relieved her of any need to raise the topic. But as they made to leave, he said to Mr Robicheaux with a little smile, ‘You can pray for forgiveness,’ and Mr Robicheaux answered him seriously, ‘That will take me some time.’ 

She expected to find him ill-tempered when he closed the front door behind them, but seeing her expression he said contritely, ‘Billy’s sense of humour can be … idiosyncratic.’ 

She saw little humour in it herself, and answered soberly, ‘We all have much forgiveness to pray for.’ 

Mr Robicheaux offered her his arm. ‘I can’t suppose that to be true of you, Mrs Hamilton. I see a woman who is hardworking and generous, and full of thought for others.’

The bold sentiment warmed her inside and out, but she shook her head in deprecation. ‘I seek to do my duty, as I should. And if life is kind, duty is pleasantly done.’ 

‘I wish I could say the same,’ said Mr Robicheaux thoughtfully as they took to the road, ‘my life is a tale of duty neglected. I am nothing but a disappointment to my family and to others.’ 

It seemed a melancholy sentiment for a morning so full of promise, and she said determinedly, ‘It is never too late to mend.’ 

Mr Robicheaux smiled again. ‘As Preacher Calderwood will no doubt remind us.’

 

After supper it was natural to offer a cup of cider again; Mr Rocks declined, and though the evening was cool, took himself outside to sit and smoke in the fading light, but Mr Robicheaux accepted cheerfully, setting the fire, then stretching his legs at the hearth. His relaxed manner made it easy for her to broach the topic which intrigued her so: ‘You grew up in Louisiana, you said?’ 

‘Yes, in Baton Rouge.’ When she raised her eyebrows in query he seemed to understand her unspoken question, and continued, ‘I had a comfortable upbringing, I can’t deny, I and my brothers and sister.’ And he told her a little of his family, and of the house where they grew up. ‘Then, of course, the war…’ he tailed off, looking into the flames. 

‘And you never went back, after?’ she prompted. 

He shook his head, sorrow shadowing his face. ‘I travelled some, with my friend Sam, and then … I still write, to my sister Susannah, they are well, but time has passed, probably too much now.’ He sighed, the topic clearly painful to him, then turned the conversation around to her. ‘Are you a native of the town?’ 

‘Not quite,’ she said, ‘I and my sister Hannah were born in St Clair, thirty miles away; I came here after I married.’ She smiled a little apologetically. ‘I am not well-travelled as you are.’ 

‘And your family?’ He seemed curious. ‘Did they come West for land?’ 

‘Yes, we were a farming family, though they passed on some time ago. And I expected to marry a farmer, as my sister did, but I had a storekeeper for a husband instead.’ 

‘I suspect he didn’t run the business alone,’ observed Mr Robicheaux shrewdly. 

‘We made it prosper together,’ she replied, flattered by the implied compliment. ‘Although I did not expect … that is to say, Mr Hamilton left me such provision as he was able, but the business lost much of its value when sold.’ Mr Robicheaux offered no comment, so she paused in her stitching, then, heart beating a little faster, asked, ‘You never married?’ 

Mr Robicheaux’s expression was thoughtful. ‘No … I had thought once to have a wife and family and a house in my home town, to live up to what was expected of me, but that time is long past. I would make a poor bargain for any woman.’ 

Martha raised her eyebrows; ‘You would not say so,’ she declared stoutly, ‘if you had seen some of the apologies for husbands that are to be found.’ _Elmer Brooke, idling his days away in drink, too lazy to move his feet while Caroline scrubs the floor around him; Josiah Tyler, who upped and left Jane and their three children without a word in a starving winter; Alexander Rowe, the meanest-tempered man alive, and when poor Mary is missing from the pews on a Sunday no one will say it’s because she has bruises to hide._ She had known herself fortunate in the man she married. ‘A kind heart sets all else at nought.’ 

‘That is certainly true,’ he said, somewhat surprised at her vehemence, ‘many matches that commend themselves to society bring little happiness.’ 

‘Just so,’ she replied, ‘it is a simple life we lead here: men and women need not marry for money or connections, but for mutual support and to make a family together.’ She raised her head to meet his gaze. ‘When Grace Carter weds Thomas Williams in a month, it will be for no one but themselves.’ 

He smiled back at her, cider glass in hand. ‘As long as one has the wisdom to recognise what is of value when we find it.’ The words were simple, yet as she sat and stitched it felt as though much had been said.

Courting was a business for silly girls and green boys: at home she and Hannah had lived too strictly for walking out with young men or exchanging bunches of flowers and lingering looks. She had met Francis Hamilton over dinner with neighbours, had spoken to him two or three times after church: truth to tell, she had found it difficult to know whether he was showing any particularity for her company until the day her father came to tell her that he had asked for her hand. But their marriage had been no less happy for a straightforward courtship, and happier than some which began with ribbons and posies and ended in bruises and blows. At her age gestures of courtship would be foolish, marriage a matter of practicality as well as shared amity: an understanding could be reached without passionate declarations.

\--

The work of the apple harvest might be over, but there were heavy chores enough to keep a man occupied, hauling and chopping a supply of wood for the winter, mending and patching shingles and fences, digging over the vegetable garden. Now that the urgency of the cidermaking had gone, Mr Robicheaux began to spend the odd afternoon away from the house, calling into town to hear the news, returning with fresh stories and more than a little gossip. And she always seemed to have the kettle hot on the stove when he returned, the tea caddy to hand, and he would sit a while and relate what he’d heard, of farming and business in the town and news from farther afield. 

Though Mr Rocks’ health was slowly improving he was still not sufficiently recovered to accompany his friend to town; in Mr Robicheaux’s absence he clearly found her company more awkward, and rather than stay in the house with her, he would find a spot outside where he could sit smoking or whittling at a piece of wood, apparently content alone. But when Mr Robicheaux was there, at work in yard or orchard, Mr Rocks was always at his side. 

At first he could do little more than sit nearby and pass tools as they were needed, but it was a surprise when she looked from the window or went out to the well to see how he smiled and teased, very different from his manner in her own company. Soon he was able to take a small part in the heavier work, and he seemed if anything more practised at physical labour than his companion, handier with the tools and more measured in his efforts. She thought it might answer the question of what occupation he might find in the town, should they decide to stay: he could find work at the lumber mill, no doubt, or perhaps on one of the farms. It was, she must admit, difficult to envisage him as part of their community. But with Mr Robicheaux’s influence? 

 

The air was fresher than it had been and the breeze stronger: good weather for drying clothes, and Martha began her twice-yearly washing of the heavy winter quilts. Hauling a dripping tub outdoors to lift the laundry onto the rope, she saw two figures engaged in conversation down by the orchard, and once the quilt was spread to dry, glad to find occasion to pause from her labours, she walked across to join them. By the time she reached them Mr Rocks had retreated to the far fence, where he stood looking out to the woods; Mr Robicheaux greeted her amiably, but his colour was rather high, and she suspected she might have intruded on a quarrel. _Perhaps best that there be some diversion_. 

The trees were still leafy, though beginning to turn to gold, the branches bare of fruit. ‘You should be proud of your achievement,’ she said with a gesture, ‘all the apples picked and in the cellar, turning to cider.’ 

‘I admit I am curious as to how it will turn out,’ he said, putting one hand on a trunk, ‘will mine be a good vintage?’ 

‘I am sure it will,’ she said, amused, ‘though you would need to wait till spring to see the proof of it.’ She looked up at the trees. ‘The orchard in spring is the best time of all: the pink blossom, thick on every branch, and when it falls it drifts in the wind like snow.’ 

His face creased into a smile. ‘You have a way with words: I can almost see it.’ A leaf fluttered down between them in the breeze, and he said practically, ‘But the cold weather will be here before too long, and we need to get all in order for you.’

His gaze followed Mr Rocks, still standing and looking towards the woods. ‘I trust all is well with him?’ ventured Martha. 

‘He is impatient,’ said Mr Robicheaux again, a little sadly, ‘it is understandable; he always tries to do too much.’ 

‘There is no need for him to rush his recovery,’ she reassured him, but he said seriously, ‘You are kind, but I would not wish us to become a burden to you; two grown men eating three meals a day are no small proposition.’ 

Martha shook her head cheerfully. ‘It is as Preacher Calderwood says,’ she replied, ‘one favour returns the other; you need only look around you to see that it is a fair exchange.’ 

‘You are very kind to say so,’ he said again, though his gaze remained on his brooding friend.

 

She had spoken of apple blossom in spring, and spring is the time when flowers blossom, blueheart and prairie flax, larkspur and wild roses; but all seasons have their beauty, and other flowers are autumn blooms – cardinal flower and goldenrod, sunflower and blazing star, firing the fields with scent and colour even as the year turns. In the calm succession of days, of company and fireside conversation, Martha knew that she smiled more often, joked more readily, hummed to herself as she worked; she felt herself expand to fill the space again where grief and poverty had cramped her in. But autumn flowers, bloom though they may, are cut down with the hay by the scythe; later, she could not believe that she had been so blind.

\--

On Friday afternoon Martha returned from town with her basket of sewing and a pannier of berries from the Williams’ farm. Supposing both her guests absent, she stepped into the kitchen without warning, arms full, and stopped short, astonished by a glittering array spread across the table: knives. A dozen bright knives, broad blades and narrow, fearsome long and wicked short, with handles of embossed silver or of bone. She gasped in horror, and Mr Rocks, sitting with blade in one hand and whetting stone in the other, turned a startled face towards her. _Heathen_ , cried a voice inside her, _savage_ ; stories from her childhood, told in whispers, of scalping and mutilation, flickered through her mind. How had she invited this into her home? She stared at him, eyes wide, and he stared back mutely, then suddenly the basket of berries fell scattering from her grip and she fled upstairs, slamming the door of the bedroom behind her as though to protect herself. 

She stood trembling, thoughts tumbling one upon another. She had seen Mr Robicheaux’s long rifle, had seen that they carried bullets and guns, as was natural for travellers; but what could be the purpose of such a display of savagery? Was Mr Rocks a man of violence, a killer even? Did Preacher Calderwood have any idea? And more, what did it say of Mr Robicheaux, so civil and cultivated, that he should travel with such a man? 

No sound came from below, and after a while she began to calm herself. She sat on the edge of the bed to collect her thoughts. Mr Rocks was no danger to her, it was foolish to think so. And hiding herself up here would not do: this was her house and she should not be intimidated. She poured water, splashed and dried her face, reset her cap in front of the glass, then flung open the door determinedly; she almost ran into Mr Robicheaux as he bounded up the stairs. ‘Mrs Hamilton! Billy fears he may have upset you…’ 

She was glad she had composed herself and was able to say soberly, ‘I was alarmed, I will own. Those knives. Like an Indian …’ 

His face was all concern, and he reached to take her hand in his. ‘Mrs Hamilton, I am so sorry. We both are. Billy is … that is to say, the life we lead …’ His touch was steady and comforting. ‘Will you come down and let me explain?’

She allowed herself to be guided downstairs to take a seat at the table while Mr Robicheaux took the kettle and made tea. The spilled fruit had been collected and set in a bowl on the table, though she saw one or two purple stains on the floorboards where a berry had been trodden underfoot. Mr Rocks came to stand by too, his expression watchful. 

‘No doubt it was alarming to see an arsenal of weapons in your kitchen,’ Mr Robicheaux said sympathetically, setting a cup in front of her, ‘but no threat was intended: Billy cleans his knives to keep them in good condition.’ 

‘But what can he need such a collection of weapons for?’ She found it simply impossible to imagine. 

‘Protection,’ said Mr Rocks simply. ‘Hunting. And –‘ 

Mr Robicheaux cut off what he would have said further with a shake of his head. He bent close to her, his expression warm with concern. ‘I am sorry with all my heart that we have frightened you.’ 

For a moment Martha leaned towards him, then she caught Mr Rocks’ sideways glance and sat up straighter. ‘It was surprise, as much as anything. It is all easily mended.’

And the day returned to its regular pattern, the knives packed away and the two of them working peaceably outside. By evening she was a little ashamed of what now seemed an overreaction; nevertheless, the question nagged at her. She had supposed Mr Rocks a drifter, taking what employment he could find, and had envisaged him as a hired hand, on a farm or a ranch, or perhaps as a labourer. But thoughts of his finding work in their town now seemed vain: was this perhaps the kernel of the argument she had seen? Was Mr Rocks, recovered to strength, more eager to leave than his friend? 

 

The next morning Mr Robicheaux pushed back his chair after breakfast, announcing, ‘Today we’ll tackle the orchard boundary fence: that corner post is rotten right through, and it’s a job for two to replace it.’ 

‘It will be a boon to see it mended,’ she said, glad to see him in good humour again, and he replied easily, ‘We’ll have it done in no time.’ 

They went out, Mr Rocks stretching in the morning air, and she heard him say jokingly, ‘We?’ 

‘Job for two, cher,’ grinned Mr Robicheaux, clapping him on the back. 

‘Job for one working man and one lazy one is what you mean,’ said Mr Rocks, and they laughed together like boys as they gathered tools and wood.

She was glad to see matters mended between them, and when she went out to pick the last of the tomatoes for their dinner Mr Robicheaux left Mr Rocks at work planing the post into shape and came to greet her. 

‘You should have turnips and carrots aplenty in a few months,’ he said, nodding towards the new planting, and she replied cheerfully, ‘It will see us well through the winter, God willing.’ 

He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward, then raised his eyes over her shoulder. ‘Your swallows are preparing to leave.’ He nodded towards the neighbouring barn, and she turned to see that he was right, the swallows lined up along the gable, gathering to begin their journey south with the sun. ‘And Billy and I should do the same.’ So casually said, yet the words caught her like the flick of a whip. 

Her stomach plunged: she stood there, hands full of tomatoes, struggling to make sense of it. _Leave?_ She tried to school her expression, conscious that she was gaping at him. 

‘I hope my work has been of some small worth to you, but if we stay longer we shall become a burden.’ 

‘You would not - that is, I thought…’ She searched his face, but there was nothing in it save calm good nature. 

‘I shall walk out to Ingalls’ place this afternoon and speak to him about reclaiming our horses. It will take a little time to prepare, if we may trespass further on your goodwill.’ 

‘Of course,’ she said, still too taken aback to frame a proper reply, ‘although …’ but he was already turning away. 

Leaving? After his attentiveness, the shared confidences and laughter, the touch of his hand? After all he had said? She had seen them dancing together at Grace Carter’s wedding, sitting by the fireside on a winter’s night, under the apple blossom in spring… _Leaving?_ Why should he announce it so suddenly? And with the thought came the answer, in a flash: it must be because she had behaved so timidly the day before. She had shown disapproval and fear, had made Mr Rocks think himself unwelcome: she had precipitated this. But if that was so, could she not remedy the misunderstanding? _All easily mended_ , she had said, and it need not be otherwise.

 

She found no opportunity to speak to him at dinnertime: Carrie Brooke stopped by with a request from her mother to spare some sorrel tea for her younger brothers, and when Martha came back, true to his undertaking Mr Robicheaux had gone out, the fence duly mended and Mr Rocks engaged in some silent occupation of his own. At the end of the afternoon, however, the rattle of a cart and shouted thanks brought her to the door, where she found Mr Robicheaux bearing a mound of saddles and harness which he laid carefully on the step. 

‘It’ll be an evening’s work to attend to these,’ he announced cheerfully, and she drew breath to speak, but before she could, there was a gentle brush at her sleeve; Mr Rocks had come out silently behind her, his face for once wearing a bright smile. 

‘I’ll get the oil,’ he said, and Martha had to retreat and leave them to work, sitting on the stoop and talking softly as they checked and mended their bridles and straps. 

 

She cooked their supper, served it and sat to eat, though the words unspoken in her throat robbed her of any appetite; Mr Robicheaux, though was as talkative as ever, recounting the news he’d hear from Mr Ingalls. When supper was done and she gathered their plates she saw that he cast her a glance of concern, but she did not wish to speak in Mr Rocks’ presence, so busied herself at the sink, letting the two of them retire. Once she was alone, however, anxiety and hope warring in her, she regretted her timidity: she must speak to him, and it would all be resolved, and tomorrow they would go to church just as usual. Seized by a sudden determination she laid down her dishtowel and went through the main room to knock upon their door.

The door was ajar, the lamp lit within, and she raised her hand to tap and announce herself, but what she glimpsed through the doorway stilled her to a statue. The two of them siting in the rosy light, too absorbed to notice her, Mr Rocks holding one of Mr Robicheaux’s hands in his, the jar of salve open on the quilt next to him, rubbing it into his palm with concentration. And Mr Robicheaux, face bright with an affection she’d never seen, reaching out his other hand to stroke through his friend’s hair, Mr Rocks raising his eyes with a look of amused fondness. 

Shame scorched her from head to toe: shame at the act of spying on a private moment, at what she was witnessing, at what she had thought and done. She closed her eyes lest she see more and backed away without a sound, placed the jug noiselessly on the kitchen table and crept up the staircase, like a thief in her own house.

Alone again in her bedroom, one emotion beat in her in time with her thumping heart: thankfulness. That she had said and done nothing to expose her hopes, her folly, to public view; that the town need not gossip or look askance; that no one could say that she had not shown the decorum appropriate to a godfearing widow. 

She could not claim that she had been deceived. Mr Robicheaux’s actions, his willing work, his amicability, all were as though seen through coloured glass: unchanged, yet their meaning entirely altered. His often-stated gratitude, his enthusiasm for the community, the companionship he had offered: if he had feared to lose what he held most dear to his heart, how could he have acted differently? And the words he had spoken, words she had treasured, emptied out and refilled to become anodyne. She had heard what she wished to hear, seen what she hoped to see, spinning for herself a picture of a future with Mr Robicheaux at its centre, and the blame was solely her own.

He might not know. God be praised, he need never know. They would continue their arrangement, the three of them, until it was concluded, and there would be no indication from her deeds or words that she had ever entertained a different idea.

She stood before the glass, red spots burning on her cheeks, and plucked the brooch from her collar, returning it to its box with trembling fingers, and closing the lid of the chest silently. She reset her cap, drawing the strings tight around her hair and bowing her head. Eyes squeezed tight and hands pressed to her chest, she swallowed hard to conquer the lump that rose in her throat. _God sees all, the weakness and the vanity, the foolish hopes and the empty dreams, but God understands. God forgives._

\--

The early church bell was tolling when Martha woke, and to her shame she lay in bed awhile, eyes closed, wishing she could claim sickness and stay at home, away from her neighbours’ gaze. But what was a private sorrow to her duty to church and Saviour? She washed and dressed as usual; when she set her collar in front of the glass she feared to find her face betraying her, but she saw herself composed, though pale: and after all, what need for anyone else to look more closely? And true to her determination Mr Robicheaux found her busy in the kitchen when he emerged in shirt and vest, setting out bread and bacon for her guests and bidding him a calm good morning.

She took Mr Robicheaux’s arm for the walk to church, but where conversation had flowed so freely before she now found little to say. She would not ask about his future plans, and saw that he found no interest in her narrow world of sewing parties and harvest home. But the silence grew, and she must find something to say. ‘You are enthusiastic at the prospect of travelling once more?’ 

‘I don’t deny it,’ he said jovially, and her heart shrank small. ‘Billy and I…’ – she heard the proprietorial ring of it for the first time – ‘we’ve spent a long time riding the trail, but there’s still a lot to see, always something new: the red rocks towering in the desert, the canyons and the high mountains.’ 

‘To be travelling all the time: it sounds a hard life.’ 

‘It can be,’ he said seriously, ‘hard sleeping, often, and sometimes a cold welcome. But seeing the sun rise over the desert, the shade of a creek on a hot midday, evenings of cards and whiskey …’ He trailed off, belatedly awkward. ‘Not that there isn’t much advantage to a settled life.’ 

She felt the corners of her mouth turn down, like the sour widow she was. ‘You find it dull. It’s only to be expected.’ 

Mr Robicheaux looked sorrowful, in a way. ‘Not dull, not exactly. Just – not fitting, like a coat that’s too small. Pull and tug at it as you like, it just won’t be made to fit.’ 

_A woman could_ , she thought. _A woman skilled with her needle could let out a seam here and patch in a dart there, and with a little effort it would do, after all_. But it wasn’t for her to say, and the church, and her neighbours, were in sight, so she said only, ‘I am sure many in our community will be sorry to see you depart,’ conscious of the unaccustomed stiffness in her tone, 

Preacher Calderwood’s text at service was, she suspected purposefully, the Good Samaritan, and she made sure to sit straight and attentive, feeling her neighbours’ eyes upon her: Martha Hamilton’s actions were noted. But when at length the congregation spilled out at noonday, cool for all the sun stood high, she found herself impatient, unwilling to wait while Mr Robicheaux made his farewells to one and sundry, so she excused herself, making the dinner her pretext, and set out for home alone. Only Sarah MacPherson stepped close as she departed, wrapping the shawl more securely around her shoulders, murmuring, ‘It is getting colder, you should take care.’ She pressed her cheek to Martha’s. ‘I will expect you on Wednesday.’ 

 

The fields where grain had stood ripe and golden as they passed were now shorn to stubble, the hay stacked ready for the barns; beans and cabbages had been harvested and the earth ploughed again for the fall planting. As Martha made her way home she saw the trees in the woods that edged the town beginning to paint themselves in shades of yellow and ochre: not yet in their full glory, but clear sign that the year had turned, and the first nip of frost would not be long in coming. Winter was still distant, with berries to gather, preserves to make, meat to smoke and planting to be done, but summer was at an end.

The feel of the house as she lifted the latch was empty, and it proved to be so, Mr Rocks outside somewhere, as ignorant of Sunday as any Indian, so she put away her shawl and donned her apron to busy herself with the meal. No one should ever say that Martha Hamilton set a poor table, and today they would have some good mutton with gravy, potatoes and the last of the beans. Rekindling the stove and preparing meat and vegetables gave her occupation for her thoughts, and once the dinner was cooking she wiped her hands on her apron and went outside, the air pleasantly cool after the heat of the oven. She looked to the road, but saw no sign of Mr Robicheaux; of course he would wish to draw out his last conversations. Then as she stood with the chickens scratching about her feet, a strange flash of brightness caught her eye. The orchard – why should anyone be cutting or pruning down there? She hurried towards the fence and saw a dark figure in among the trees. What could he be doing?

Under the spreading branches Mr Rocks stood hatless, a belt strung with knives strapped around his waist, an unsheathed blade in one gloved hand. As Martha watched his hand whipped back and the knife buried itself quivering in the trunk of the tree where the hilts of three others already projected. Her trees. Francis’ trees. Blades thudding into the bark, into the heart of the wood, sap bleeding out … Another flash and quiver, and it was more than she could bear. ‘Stop!’ she cried, before she could restrain herself. ‘My trees – stop!’ 

Mr Rocks turned around and paused, then as she approached stepped forward to pull the blades from the trunk. ‘Target practice,’ he explained brusquely. ‘Doesn’t hurt anyone.’ 

He was still carelessly holding the knife as he turned around to face her, and fear and anger knotted together inside her into a rising rage. ‘You should not - here, and now –‘ To her shame tears stung her eyes. 

His tone as he answered was flat, dismissive. ‘We’re leaving soon. I need to be sharp, to fight. That’s how I live.’ 

‘How you live?’ 

A look of patience crossed his face, as though he were explaining to a child. ‘Fights, for money. It’s how we both live. I was ill, and Goody worked for you, and now I’m strong again, we’ll go back to it.’ 

She stared at him, the bald statement impossible for her to process. ‘What kind of savage are you?’ 

Mr Rocks slipped the blades back into their sheaths and stepped close, his face dark. ‘All you see is the outside. You see Goody in his coat and vest, talking and joking, and you think he’s like you. But that’s not how he is inside. You don’t know him at all.’ 

‘How dare you?’ Her voice was no more than a whisper. ‘How _dare_ you?’ 

‘I’m a savage,’ he said, expressionless again, picked up his hat and walked away.

 

Only babies cry: her own mother had told her she was too old to cry when she was a girl of five. What reason could there be for a woman of forty and more to feel a sob rise in her throat? She laid her brow against the smooth bark of the apple tree, running a thumb over the gashes he’d made and willing herself under control, until her heart calmed and she could wipe her eyes on her apron.

Finally it was plain to her: she and Mr Rocks had always stood on either side of a chasm, a respectable woman in a town of peaceful folk, and a fighting man, a lawbreaker, probably a killer. But where did kind and cultivated Mr Robicheaux belong? She had supposed him planted beside her on her side of the gulf, as Francis had been, had supposed their interests and concerns to be the same, but Preacher Calderwood’s introduction came back to her now: _Mr Robicheaux is well-known for his exploits in the war_. No wonder he had shown such amusement at her tale of the preacher’s younger days. The life they shared one she couldn’t comprehend, the bond between them one she would not imagine: Mr Rocks, cruelly direct, was right – she had seen only the surface. 

When she returned to the house she found Mr Robicheaux in the kitchen, rescuing the neglected dinner. His face told her he knew what had happened, but rather than see his concern she turned her back to take the kettle from the stove, spooning tea from the caddy and setting it to brew. When she sat to drink it the heat of the cup was steadying. 

Mr Robicheaux took the jar of salve from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘I fear we have outstayed our welcome,’ he said gently. ‘We should trespass no further on your generosity.’ And what was there for Martha to do but agree? 

She inclined her head stiffly over the cup. ‘I am grateful for the work you’ve done, but perhaps it would be for the best. I must not delay you now the poorer weather is coming on.’ 

\--

There was no call for her to see them leave: she had shaken their hands, accepted their thanks and wished them well; she had made up some bread and cheese and apples for them to take. She would not stand on the doorstep and watch them ride away while there was work to be done. Yet somehow it wasn’t clear to her what needed doing first: she took the bucket out to the well, then set it down again empty and moved to stand at the fence, running a hand along the rail. A winter’s worth of logs and kindling stacked neatly in the woodshed; the rails and shingles patched and sound; the vegetable garden dug over and planted with turnips and kale. _A fair exchange_.

Her feet carried her down to the apple trees, out of sight of the road; beyond the shelter of the house the wind blew cold and she hugged her arms for warmth, wishing she had brought a shawl. The trees were bare of fruit, all picked and pressed and stored away, the leaves brown and curling. She laid a hand on the roughened bark. There would be sweet cider next spring, pouring clear from the barrel with the flavour of sunshine and good company and thankfulness, but she thought perhaps that she might have tasted it for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> Andrew Calderwood is obviously a close relation of Andy Cramed from _Deadwood_ ; his story and name are based on Cramed's.


End file.
